


Made in Heaven

by Lindow_Moss



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1990s, Freddie Mercury - Freeform, Genderfluid Crowley (Good Omens), Grief/Mourning, Multi, Queen (Band) - Freeform, crowley likes queen, mostly canon compliant except for me forgetting what year it is
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-18
Updated: 2019-09-18
Packaged: 2020-10-20 20:24:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,863
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20681417
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lindow_Moss/pseuds/Lindow_Moss
Summary: But God moves in mysterious ways, and so does the music industry. And so Crowley had found out, from a newspaper left lying on the Dowlings’ breakfast table, that by some miracle Queen was releasing another album.Made In Heaven.Well, no. Crowley wouldn’t call it a miracle. Heaven didn’t give a shit about it one way or another,  even if it wasnamedfor the bloody place. Didn’t care who lived or died, didn’t care if a group of humans stubbornly held onto a collection of vocal fragments that had been recorded on borrowed time, poured out their hearts and souls transforming them into something beautiful. Crowley could bet that no one within the bleached and bare halls of Heaven even know who Freddie Mercurywas.They’d fight for your soul, yes, flaming swords and all… but ask them who youwere,and they’d have no answer at all.---Queen releases their "Made in Heaven" album four years after Freddie Mercury's death. Crowley tries to process his feelings about this and is bad at it; Aziraphale tries to understand.





	Made in Heaven

Nanny Ashtoreth was not supposed to _sprawl_, she thought to herself, halfway through collapsing under a tree in the Dowlings’ garden. Crowley should have put an end to that habit when she’d taken up this post. Nanny Ashtoreth was upright, sensible, unyielding. She sat with her knees together, feet on the floor, back ramrod-straight, and she stared you down from behind her dark glasses until you did exactly as she said. A force to be reckoned with, she was.

But the Dowlings weren’t here anymore, were they. They’d all awoken with a sudden yet unfaltering desire to go on holiday to Budapest, of all places. Wouldn’t be back til Thursday next.

And for that matter, Nanny Ashtoreth wasn’t here, either. As soon as the Dowlings were out the door, she’d swapped her flats for black combat boots and her dress for black jeans with snags and tears miracled artfully across them; she’d kept her hair long, though half of it was now tied up in a tumbleweed that she _called_ a bun; she’d drawn on a centimeter thick layer of black eyeliner (you couldn’t tell under her dark glasses, but she could, and that was the point); and a mood ring in the form of a serpent wound its way around her third finger. 

Old habits die hard.

For Crowley that mostly meant doing everything, no matter how mundane, in style. And anyway, Crowley had invented mood rings back in 1975. She wasn’t about to miss the opportunity to get back in on the trend. Low-grade occult energy wherever you went. Hers had currently settled at a vibrant orange, which the humans had decided meant “nervous” or “unhappy,” but more precisely meant that this was November, and she should probably think about wearing gloves if she intended to spend any length of time outdoors. If you asked (and no one, she’d arranged, was around to do so), she’d say it meant something along the lines of _bugger off, I’m taking my radio and this bottle of whiskey out to the orchard, and you_ really _don’t want to get in my way._

The radio in question was an old wind-up model that, like any radio she got near, only ever played Queen. Since radios had become _a thing_, those in Crowley’s possession had adopted an irritating tendency of playing only one thing, over and over and over again. First it had been Glenn Miller; then the Beatles. Some time around 1981, the radio gods’ hyperfixation had switched over to Queen, which Crowley had decided she actually enjoyed. Talk about doing it in style. These humans had it in spades. Not to mention they were always putting out something new, splendid, and scandalous, and she quite enjoyed singing along (sometimes drunkenly, often with wild hand gestures, and always at full volume).

That was, until November 1991.

****

Aziraphale had found Crowley lying on the floor in his flat that night, two empty whiskey bottles tossed aside and shattered nearby, shouting out _save me, save me, saaaave me, I can’t face this life alone_ to a turntable that had hours ago stopped playing anything but static. He’d sobbed into the angel’s shoulder and cursed the blasted Ineffable Plan, while Aziraphale, bless him, said nothing, just ran his fingers down Crowley’s back and let him cry. Later, they’d gone through several more bottles of wine, while Crowley sang along to his entire collection of Queen albums. He’d barely noticed Aziraphale switching the records over whenever they ran out, just stayed with his head tilted back off the edge of the sofa, and kept singing. Didn’t look up until he heard Aziraphale singing backup on “Bohemian Rhapsody,” which Crowley hadn’t even imagined he’d know the words to. _Full of surprises today, aren’t you, angel,_ he’d thought to himself, though he couldn’t get his voice to form the words. Lyrics were one thing - he’d sang them so many times they flowed from his body with no conscious effort. Anything else, though, wasn’t about to make it past the alcohol haze surrounding his brain.

_Let me go!_  
_Will not let you go_  
_Let me go!_  
_Never let you go_  
_Let me go!_  
_No no no no no_

They didn’t sober up that night, and Crowley didn’t miracle his hangover away the next morning.

****

1991 had become ‘92 had become ‘93, and Crowley had begun worrying how long her current arrangement with audio technology would hold up. Whatever occult forces controlled the radio had switched their musical preferences up on her before, and Crowley had no way of knowing when they might be getting bored. Given the track record of the last three artists they’d settled on, she wasn’t sure she was ready to call down impending doom on some other unsuspecting talent. She just hoped that occasionally driving the Bentley at inadvisable speeds around Richmond, terrifying the locals (or at least the local deer) with both her loud music and disregard for traffic laws, would alert said occult forces that she wanted things to stay The Way They Were, thank you very much.

But God moves in mysterious ways, and so does the music industry. And so Crowley had found out, from a newspaper left lying on the Dowlings’ breakfast table, that by some miracle Queen was releasing another album. _Made In Heaven_.

Well, no. Crowley wouldn’t call it a miracle. Heaven didn’t give a shit about it one way or another, even if it was _named_ for the bloody place. Didn’t care who lived or died, didn’t care if a group of humans stubbornly held onto a collection of vocal fragments that had been recorded on borrowed time, poured out their hearts and souls transforming them into something beautiful. Crowley could bet that no one within the bleached and bare halls of Heaven even knew who Freddie Mercury _was_. They’d fight for your soul, yes, flaming swords and all… but ask them who you _were_, and they’d have no answer at all. Wouldn’t know what you were yammering on about, in all likelihood.

Not a miracle. An anomaly, then. Life after death, pressed into vinyl. 

And so she’d tempted the Dowlings into a spontaneous holiday, grabbed the nearest bottle that she considered _drinkable_ from the house’s liquor cabinet, and headed out to the orchard.

***

It was nearly dusk when Aziraphale found Crowley, characteristically sprawled out under one of Brother Francis’s prized pear trees - eyes shut, right arm draped over her knee, whiskey in hand. She’d given the radio her best Nanny Ashtoreth glare, daring it to play anything other than the new material. The radio had shuddered internally, and had thus far obliged, although with an irritating and frankly spiteful penchant for shuffling the songs around. It had developed a certain fondness for “You Don’t Fool Me,” which was currently playing for the third time that hour.

“Don’t think I’m going to miracle the grass stains out of that ridiculous suit of yours,” Crowley said, barely opening one eye to acknowledge Aziraphale’s presence as he sat down beside her. “Pout all you want. ‘S not happening.”

“I’m sure I’ll manage, Miss Ashtoreth… er, Crowley…?”

“Angel, you hardly _ever_ use my name, anyway. No point in starting now. Doesn’t matter.”

“As you wish, my dear,” said Aziraphale (who, true to form, had become quite taken with _The Princess Bride_ eight years too late).

Crowley closed her eye again and went back to ignoring him. 

“This is the new album, then?” Aziraphale offered after several minutes of uncomfortable silence.

Crowley’s left eye opened again and glared at him over her glasses. “And what would _you_ know about it?”

“Well, the lad at the record shop _did_ mention…” he began, then trailed off.

_In these days of cool reflection_  
_You come to me and everything seems alright_  
_In these days of cold affections_  
_You sit by me..._

“Fine,” Crowley sighed. “Yeah, it’s new. Stuff recorded just before he… you know…” 

Aziraphale, bless _and_ damn him, said nothing. 

_This should be love for everyone,_  
_This world should be free, this world could be one_  
_We should bring love to our daughters and sons_  
_Love, love, love, love, this could be heaven for everyone_

“Anyway. New. Though _this_ old thing is still a piece of...” Crowley gestured vaguely toward the radio, which retaliated by playing all four seconds of “Yeah” six times in a row. 

_“Anyway,”_ she growled at the radio again. “That was a thing."

“Crowley…”

“What were _you_ doing in a record shop anyway? Taking up collecting rare 78’s now, too?” 

“That’s not a half bad idea, actually. Might look into that. But no, I wasn’t.” Aziraphale nodded toward the radio. “Do you like it?”

“S’alright,” Crowley hissed, squeezing her eyes shut against the stinging.

“My dear.” 

“Hmm.”

“You’re crying.”

“M’not.”

“You _are_. Your makeup’s gone all funny. Here…” Aziraphale waved his hand and Crowley’s eyeliner evened itself out, finding itself remarkably waterproof this time. “You did a lovely job, by the way, quite, er… fashionable.”

Crowley snorted and rolled her head to the side. “What do you want, angel.” 

“Well, the thing is…well it’s just that I picked something up for you, like I said I was talking to the fellow at the record shop and he said… and _I_ thought _oh I’m sure Crowley already_ ... but then I figured if I knew you at all you’d be doing, well, just as you are now, and I know my timing is _dreadful_ but… oh, bother, just, _here_…” 

Aziraphale held out a flat square package wrapped in brown paper. Crowley stared for a moment, then reached out a hesitant hand to take it from him. 

“...I hope you’ll forgive me for just turning up like this, I’ll go in a moment… it’s just I know how much you love your collection, and I thought it should be complete, and you don’t have to talk to me for the next _year_ if you don’t want to, I won’t bother you again, I just…” 

Aziraphale trailed off, because Crowley had gone utterly still. She’d pushed her glasses up into her hair, and her yellow eyes were burning straight into his. A silhouette of Freddie Mercury gazed past them both from the now unwrapped album in her lap.

“I’m so sorry, Crowley,” he whispered. 

Crowley didn’t lower her eyes at all, just set the album aside and shifted to her left, leaning into Aziraphale’s side. And for the second time that decade she buried her face in the angel’s neck, and for the second time that decade, he let her cry. And a voice that Crowley was _certain_ Heaven didn’t deserve sang into the growing dusk:

_Made in heaven, made in heaven_  
_That's what everybody says_  
_Wait and see, it was really meant to be_  
_So plain to see_  
_Yeah, everybody, everybody, everybody tells me so_  
_Yes it was plain to see, yes it was meant to be_  
_Written in the stars_

“Don’t,” Crowley said, through gritted teeth, against Aziraphale’s shoulder, “don’t make me say it. I can’t…”

“I won’t,” he answered, tucking his chin on top of her head and running his hand through her hair. “You don’t have to. I know. I won’t.”

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, welcome to my first story ever. Basically this is me trying to process my own feelings about this album, which, if you haven't heard it, is gorgeous and also extremely upsetting given its context. 
> 
> I somehow got it in my head that Warlock Dowling grew up in the 1990s, which is why I set this where I did. I was most done with this story before I realized this wasn't the case. So, you know. AU Zone. Also, re: Crowley's fashion choices, I'm quite sure she took one look at 1990s menswear and said HELL NO.


End file.
